Forgiveness
by mousers
Summary: The sky had tried to welcome a slaughtered dawn, and all it had done was stain the lightening black into a deep, blood crimson, dripping with black ash clouds. The world was really not such a beautiful place. GerIta angst, with ending fluff.


GermanyxItaly, implied Nazism, tormented Feliciano, angst angst angst.

Please enjoy.

* * *

Feliciano remembers that dark, moonless night very clearly, like it had been only days ago, although the scars and wounds he carried have long since healed.

He had been running for hours, something he was sure he wouldn't have been able to do before the war. He had almost made it back to Italy. He had sat, slumped, against a burned-out baker shop in a small Austrian town, yellow stars ablaze, surrounding him. He had put his head in his trembling hands, sweat chilling his skin, and prayed. He had prayed that God would understand. That God would understand that none of this was his fault, or his brother's. That they were just doing what they were told. That they didn't want to be at war. That it hurt, that the burning homes and warm screams of their people pulsed through his body, and that he hadn't wished for any of this. How could he? He would never have been able to foresee the situation- he was a blind fool, he could admit it himself, he couldn't even bring himself to be aware of what had started to happen, and by the time the horror had reached its crescendo, he couldn't turn away, he couldn't abandon Ludwig like that.

He had clasped his trembling hands together desperately, raised his prayer to his head, and began whispering- a faint, pathetic, wavering sound. What exactly his plea contained, he couldn't remember. It had started with reminding God that the German man was, "only following orders", the very same words that Romano would use to comfort Feliciano when he would realise the blood that had been shed because of their country. He had asked God to remember that Germany wasn't really Germany - he was a man first, a nation second, and then that Ludwig wasn't really Ludwig - he didn't have the free will that a man should have, he couldn't stop what was happening. He had to keep hurting people.

He was just following orders.

He would wait for as long as he could to go home- as much as he longed with every fibre of his being to see his brother right now, it wasn't worth the smug satisfaction that would be piled onto him when Romano thought that Feliciano's revelation meant that he was proved right- his beloved Ludwig was a murderer. A murderer in the same way that every other nation was, Feliciano and his brother included, a murderer in that they had been the country of a leader who couldn't play nicely, but a murderer nonetheless, apparently.

The sky had tried to welcome a slaughtered dawn, and all it had done was stain the lightening black into a deep, blood crimson, dripping with black ash clouds. Shaking white hands had cradled their opposite arms, and Feliciano had looked to grey buildings and red banners.

The world was really not such a beautiful place.

--

Ludwig remembers that meeting. It was one of the very few times he had ever seen Feliciano angry. He remembers the way that his fellow nations had looked at him like a poster of a particularly demented wanted man, and the way that he had kept his head down and sat very quietly, listening to them pick up the pieces of his war, blaming him very openly, all attempts at civility are apparently long forgotten.

Japan was not present at that particular meeting. America was quieter than usual too, like a grounded child, told that he, for once, should be seen and not heard, and should not be allowed to talk until he has thought about what he's done. Despite the fact that they were, recently, in gangs that patrolled separate sides of the playground, Ludwig felt a twinge of pity for the man- it is never easy to stand by and watch your government do something you disagree with, as he knows all to well. For his troubles, he received a glare from Alfred when he realised that he was being watched.

Ludwig swallowed his pride and dipped his head again as they began to discuss how the war will be paid for, making particular emphasis on battered and bruised countries like Poland, Czechoslovakia, Austria... is Germany even listening? An anonymous and haughty voice had asked.

There was a loud slam on the table beside Ludwig.

"You should all be ashamed of yourselves!"

All eyes were on a young Italian man, who was standing, glaring around the room, one hand on his desk.

He seemed surprised by his own outburst, but continued. "Doesn't the bible say, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone"? Who here hasn't been at war? If any of you are innocent enough to judge Germany, then go ahead and do it! But you'll be wrong!"

There had been a long silence, and at its crescendo, Feliciano sighed and said simply, "We're men first and nations second. What has Ludwig done to any of you?"

Ludwig remembers the way he looked at Feliciano, and the way that the Italian had not looked back, but continued to stare fiercely at the rest of the meeting. No one had made any sound, but most were now looking between Germany and Italy. It had seemed to, literally, be the two of them against the world.

Someone cleared their throat. "Feliciano is right," declared Spain quietly to the party. He then turned to Ludwig. "I'm sorry."

There was a general awkward mutter of apology, and the meeting continued in a much more balanced manner. Ludwig's face was hot as Feliciano sat beside him again. Friendlier or less-involved nations began to look at him and smile, perhaps sympathetically, but it was forgiveness, nonetheless.

Forgiveness. A deep breath of fresh, calming air that wasn't hanging with the acrid tang of blood and tar.

Ludwig began to see why Feliciano thought the world was such a beautiful place.

--

Feliciano smiled in his sleep, although it seemed to be a much calmer motion as his smiles when he was awake- the were more subdued and sentimental, caring and cared for.

Ludwig tightened his hold on the sleeping figure beside him, and it squirmed into his embrace. Sighing hopelessly, he kissed the roan hair that rested against his chest.

There were times when he wondered why he even bothered with the Italian man, but this was not one of them.

He let a small smile cross his lips.

"Thank you."

* * *

*Zoom out slowly* "Oooh, you make me live, whatever this world can give t-" *shot* NAH I'M JK. :D

Whoa, if this is what happens when I sit down to write smut, then I'm totally not meant to write smut (I'll get it done, Oob, I promise XD).

R&R please, thanks for reading.

OH, any suggestions for alternative titles? Thanks.

EDIT: ARGH I've re-uploaded this like, twice (Poland) because FFn's being a total edit!bitch. Sorry if you've been spammed.


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